


lip service

by autviam



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, and salty!oikawa, oh my god there is gonna be so much sin, priest!iwa, ushijima is also an archbishop (he'll show up later I'm sure)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 04:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12857184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autviam/pseuds/autviam
Summary: The priest isn’t sure, but he would swear that Oikawa had lingered for a moment too long in the doorway, brown eyes fixed on Iwaizumi; there was somethingtherethat Iwaizumi just couldn’t read, stirring in the depths of Oikawa’s gaze, but. He turned his head, and then, he was gone, a flashfire that left nothing but the smouldering remnants of whispers on people’s tongues, hushed words that lingered in the air like the smell of ash.-or; in which Iwaizumi is a young priest sent to a remote parish, Oikawa is a member of his flock who's strayed, and Iwaizumi is determined to find out why.





	lip service

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verbrennung](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbrennung/gifts).



> *clears throat* OKAY SO this fic is dedicated to light of my life [ver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbrennung), who is my source of inspiration and also knowledge of Catholicism. What would I do without you? ~~I probably would still have half a page sat in my drafts for another year OOPS~~ Thank you for being my support and getting as excited as I am about this, and also ignoring the fact that we're definitely both awful, awful sinners. I wouldn't have started writing this if it wasn't for you; thank you for your never-ending patience with my slow ass. MWAH.
> 
> This fic is COMPLETELY self indulgent and, if you hadn't already guessed from the premise, it's going to be full of sin. Chock full of it. Definitely the most sinful thing I'll have written, ever, as I'm usually vanilla af and all about that fluff life, but I guess we all go off the rails at some point, huh.
> 
> Oops.

Despite belief to the contrary, priests aren’t any holier than anyone else. Iwaizumi is acutely aware of this; he always has been, even when he was new to the collar, its stark whiteness almost digging into the flesh of his neck as a constant reminder of the weight that he has willingly accepted onto his shoulders. No, to be a priest is to act as a vessel for the Lord to work through, and Iwaizumi has been blessed to have been accepted into the embrace of the Almighty.

And yet. For all of his years striving to be the perfect man of the cloth, he was still unable to curb his tongue when it counted- what had he expected, really, when he had disagreed with Ushijima? The Archbishop wasn’t a man predisposed to anger, but of course Iwaizumi would be punished, and here he was, in the back of beyond, pastor to one of the most remote parishes that he had ever heard of. 

He had been exiled. 

\--

Iwaizumi shifts gear, eyes intent on the road ahead. The landscape here is harsh and jagged, tiny worn roads looping through the countryside to the estates and farms that had sprung up in this unforgiving place- you had to be careful, here, even if you knew where you were going. Iwaizumi visits his parishioners most days, small church nestled in the village nearby; it’s impossible to have the traditional come-and-go visits that Iwaizumi had been used to, with his flock being spread so far, so he as often as he can, he goes to them. He’s intimately familiar with his current route, easing his way up and round another turn, cresting a hillock to see his destination in the distance. Travelling in a straight line, it would take maybe ten, fifteen minutes; with the reality of how the road curves off to the right, falling away with the lay of the land, it’ll take him far longer.

Iwaizumi’s hands tighten on the wheel as he navigates his way down the track. He forces his fingers to relax once he’s back on level ground, focuses his attention on the way ahead, eyes trailing across the sight of Aoba Johsai in the distance. He shouldn’t have favourites, really, but his traitorous heart has a weakness for this particular corner of his parish, even if it’s no more beautiful than any of the other farmsteads he’s been to. 

At the next gate he stops at to open, he manages to catch his hand and ends up with a splinter driven into his palm; he uses his teeth to pull it out, wondering if his Lord is warning him against this, somehow. Even so, he allows himself this concession. Loving his congregation is not a sin.

The road (little better than a dirt track, really) slowly turns into gravel. Iwaizumi winds his window down, listens to the sound of barking dogs grow steadily louder as he pulls down the driveway. It’s coming towards the end of summer, but the collection of cottages and buildings here are still covered in a cascade of colour and flowers, muted as they may be by the overcast sky. Iwaizumi steps out of his car, straightens his soutane, pats out the wrinkles. It’ll rain later, he’s certain.

This is how the two men find him, bible held in one hand, the other pushing his hair back from his forehead as he regards the grey clouds that fill the sky.

“Father?”

Iwaizumi snaps out of his reverie and turns his attention to the man who has addressed him. “Ah, Matsukawa. Hanamaki.” He reaches out to shake their hands, smiling at them as they respectfully incline their heads before grinning back. They’re always pleased to see him.

“Oikawa should be up in the main house,” Hanamaki says, tilting his head past the cottage. “We’d love to stay and chat, but we’ve got to get the sheep down to the lower pastures, now that autumn is rolling around.”

Iwaizumi nods and lets them go. He’s not here for them today. They’re both faithful members of his flock, part of a small but dedicated group of farmhands who make it to Mass each Sunday without fail; their lives are far from easy, and each day has work that needs doing, but Sunday is the defined day of worship that they do not stray from.

The head of the household is a different matter, though.

Iwaizumi hasn’t been here long, but already, Oikawa Tooru has established himself as one of the more difficult members of his parish. In fact, Iwaizumi wonders if he can really consider Oikawa a member at all- he hasn’t been to Mass for weeks and he spurns the community at almost every turn; Iwaizumi hasn’t seen him for nearly a month, now. He would hardly count Oikawa’s other attendances as true rotes of worship, either, not when the man always turned up late and left just before the end of the service. His very first Mass had been an… interesting affair, with Oikawa flinging the doors open during the homily, Iwaizumi almost stumbling over the words that normally came so easily to his lips- there had been a stir in the hush, members of the congregation glancing over their shoulders, askance. 

And yet, Oikawa strode forwards as if nothing was amiss, the disapproving stares rolling off his shoulders like so much water, taking a seat as if he truly belonged there. Much to Iwaizumi’s surprise, he’d spent the rest of Mass in silence, looking for all intents and purposes as if he was actually listening and taking in what was being said- and then just as Iwaizumi commenced the final blessing, he left. The priest isn’t sure, but he would swear that Oikawa had lingered for a moment too long in the doorway, brown eyes fixed on Iwaizumi; there was something _there_ that Iwaizumi just couldn’t read, stirring in the depths of Oikawa’s gaze, but. He turned his head, and then, he was gone, a flashfire that left nothing but the smouldering remnants of whispers on people’s tongues, hushed words that lingered in the air like the smell of ash. 

As Iwaizumi makes his way past the cottage and towards the main house, he hears Matsukawa calling out behind him. “Just head on in, the door isn’t locked,” he says. “The doorbell’s broken and we haven’t gotten around to fixing it yet.”

Matsukawa and Hanamaki exchange words that Iwaizumi can’t quite make out and then laugh to each other as they move away, some sort of inside joke that Iwaizumi wouldn’t understand even if he’d heard it. They’re both easygoing men- quiet, but quick to smile. Most of Oikawa’s farmhands are, which seems so at odds with their employer, and yet they have nothing but kind words for him, despite his reputation. In _spite_ of his reputation, it almost seems. 

He’s a tangled web of conundrums that Iwaizumi wants to unfurl. He’s a good man, Iwaizumi is sure, and though it might take some work, he can be led back onto the right path. 

Iwaizumi takes a moment to take in the sight of the house in all its glory. Unlike many of the other farmsteads that Iwaizumi attends, though Aoba Johsai is old and well-established, it holds no air of dilapidation, no tiredness lingering around the edges of its buildings. Oikawa is a man who takes pride in his surroundings, and it shows, from the well tended flowerbeds to the trellised ivy that climbs the house, green starting to make way to the yellows and reds of autumn. Iwaizumi has been into the main house once before, but that’s all- normally when he’s here, he visits the laborers who share the small cottages, as Oikawa is apparently too busy to see him or absent altogether. 

His single foray into the larger house had been through the back door, just into the kitchen. Yahaba had insisted on making him coffee, pilfering a jar of instant granules from a cupboard while Iwaizumi lingered in the doorway. “We always forget to replace ours, so Oikawa keeps some spare,” he’d explained, leading Iwaizumi back outside. A small thing that Yahaba was accustomed to and didn’t question, but it was another tiny facet of the mystery that was Oikawa; a puzzle piece of consideration that somehow slotted alongside haughtiness and aloofness.

Iwaizumi knocks firmly on the door before making his way inside. The opening hallway is completely new territory, and Iwaizumi has to admit, he’s surprised. He steps through an open door into what appears to be a living room, tidy but welcoming, encyclopedias filling shelves and plants sat on small tables; the whole place is sleek and modern, but with an airy, welcoming feel that seems so at odds with what Iwaizumi has seen of Oikawa so far. It’s homely too, the sort of place that- if Iwaizumi had the time, that is- he would feel comfortable settling down into, sofas scattered with cushions that look perfect for leaning on, book in one hand while the other curls around a hot drink. 

If the coasters and bookmarked novel on the coffee table are any indication, Oikawa has cultivated this area for that very reason. The man himself has yet to appear and Iwaizumi is loathe to sit down without invitation, but he finds himself stepping over so he can at least glance at whatever it is that Oikawa is currently reading. It’s not a novel at all, but a copy of King Lear- Iwaizumi doesn’t know too much about Shakespeare, but he _does_ know that most people don’t tend to pick up a copy of a play for some light reading. Oikawa seems to be a voracious reader, though, if the huge bookcase in the corner is any indication. Iwaizumi looks over it again, taking in the details this time- the massive variety of books, organised with some system Iwaizumi can’t currently work out; new and old, hardback and paperback, leatherbound special editions and small slim volumes that are bound with string rather than glue.

It takes him longer than he’d like, but Iwaizumi spots a bible nestled amongst some old, large encyclopedias. It looks pristine, pages edged with unflawed red and gold lettering still clearly stamped on its spine. If Oikawa reads the bible, it’s certainly not this one.

“Seen anything you like, Father?”

Iwaizumi turns. Oikawa is leaning on the doorframe, head tilted against the wood as he watches Iwaizumi with a lazy smile, something sharp lingering at its corners. Immediately, the welcoming air feels muted in the face of this man, who uncoils himself and moves forward- Oikawa’s presence fills the room, and not just because it _is_ his room. Iwaizumi reads every move as one with intent. Nothing Oikawa does is thoughtless.

“It’s certainly a broad collection that you have here, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says mildly. He had hoped to sit down with Oikawa, discuss what was on his mind and gently lead the conversation to why he hadn’t been attending Mass, but there’s already a spark of challenge in Oikawa’s eyes.

“Probably one of the largest in the parish, I would assume,” Oikawa replies. There’s no library in the tiny village, being relegated to the nearest town, and for all that Oikawa is being presumptuous, he’s probably right. “I have more books upstairs.”

Iwaizumi hums noncommittally. He has his bible held in both hands, resting on his stomach, and makes the deliberate decision to unlink his fingers to open his body language. Oikawa’s eyes don’t move, but the way his smile quirks _just so_ at the corners indicates that he’s well aware of what Iwaizumi is doing; not for the first time, Iwaizumi wonders exactly how he’s supposed to deal with the man across from him. Scratch the most difficult member of his parish, he’s definitely the most dangerous and calculating person Iwaizumi has met, period.

After a brief second of silence, Oikawa seems to abruptly grow bored of playing games, and sits down. More accurately, he throws himself down onto a sofa in a way that also seems graceful, despite how he leans back into the cushions and lets his legs fall akimbo. “As interesting as it would be to talk about books all day, we’re both busy people, and I doubt you drove all this way just to see if you could borrow something from my personal library, hmm?”

Even though Iwaizumi has to tilt his head down to speak to Oikawa now, they’re still very much on the same level; there might be respect, Iwaizumi isn’t sure, but there definitely isn’t any of the reverence that he’s used to receiving from parishioners. Not that Iwaizumi deserves reverence, of course- he’s just a vassal of the Lord- but. He indicates at the sofa across from Oikawa.

“May I sit?”

Oikawa’s eyes flash. “Of course, be my guest.”

If anyone else were here, Iwaizumi is sure they would be appalled at how Oikawa is hosting him- or rather, not hosting him. However, Iwaizumi merely sweeps his soutane with one hand so he can sit down, unruffled. He doesn’t think his usual openings of either asking about life and work or starting directly with a bible reading will work; Oikawa doesn’t seem interested in the gentle ease into scripture, and he definitely isn’t a devout believer who wants immediate contact with the Lord. “Was there perhaps an issue you had with my sermon a few weeks ago? It’s just that I’ve noticed you haven’t been at Mass for a while, and I was wondering if you’d like to discuss that.”

Oikawa regards him for a few moments, as if surprised by his directness. “I can’t even remember what your last sermon was about,” he then says dismissively, turning his head to look away before his eyes make their way back to Iwaizumi’s. There’s an arrogant set to his mouth that should probably cause Iwaizumi’s blood to boil, but it doesn’t.

“Well, you wouldn’t remember my last sermon because it was two days ago, and you weren’t there.”

A pause. Iwaizumi wonders if he’s misstepped; he’s been called blunt before, and it’s that very bluntness that had led him to this point, sitting in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, sent away from his former parish. However, before he can linger too much on it, Oikawa throws his head back and _laughs_. 

“My apologies, Father,” Oikawa says, not sounding sorry at all. “Completely slipped my mind, I’m afraid. Running a farmstead is hard work.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t mention the countless other workers and farm owners who appear like clockwork in the pews each week, doesn’t mention that Oikawa’s very own workers are amongst them. “If you like, I can provide you with reminders. Or I could ask Matsukawa to remind you each Sunday, in case the time slips your mind.”

Oikawa huffs another laugh through his nose, as if amused by this all. “No, no, after our little meeting here, I’m sure I’ll remember.” He leans forwards, resting his hands on his knees. “How many Hail Marys should I say to cleanse myself?”

Another quick thrust, irreverence aiming for any chinks in Iwaizumi’s spiritual armour. “As many as you feel are necessary, even if that’s none whatsoever,” he says, barb sliding past him. “You’re not obliged to come to Mass, but it would be nice to see you back again.”

Oikawa mimics the noncommittal hum that Iwaizumi had given him earlier. For all that Iwaizumi hasn’t been here long and barely knows Oikawa, he’s heard enough from the other parishioners to know that Oikawa was once a regular fixture in church, a pillar of the community. The old ladies that organise the community center love to remind him of this fact, gossip passed around as swiftly as finger sandwiches and cups of tea and coffee. _He was such a good boy,_ they would sigh, _what happened?_

Iwaizumi doesn’t know, might never know, but whatever it is, he hopes he can help Oikawa move past it. 

“I’ll see if I can clear my schedule,” Oikawa says, tone neutral, betraying nothing. He regards Iwaizumi for another moment, gaze analytical, before he tilts his head imperceptibly. “On that note, however, as much as I’m enjoying our little talk, I have to go see to the sheep.”

“Of course.”

They both rise simultaneously. Oikawa stands in one fluid motion, and then gestures with his arm towards the door. “I’ll see you out, Father.”

It’s definitely the shortest- and most unusual- visit Iwaizumi has ever been on, but he feels like he’s achieved something, which is the important thing. Oikawa dutifully opens the door for him, and just before Iwaizumi makes his way down the steps, he catches how Oikawa’s attention is diverted to the empty shell of the doorbell, nose crinkling a little as he surveys the small wires hanging out of it.

Somehow, Iwaizumi gets the feeling that it’ll be fixed by the end of the day.

“Goodbye, Iwaizumi,” Oikawa calls as Iwaizumi reaches the gate. Before he can turn to respond, the door is shut with a firm _click_ , and Iwaizumi is alone with nothing but the sound of the birds and his own thoughts.

\--

Pride may be a sin, but Hajime is only human, and he allows himself the moment of self-satisfaction he feels when Oikawa makes his way into the church on Sunday, even if the man _is_ interrupting the penitential rite. 

It’s a start.

**Author's Note:**

> forgive me Father for I have sinned  
>  ~~I'm going to hell~~
> 
> (you can find me at [varminties](https://varminties.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you wanna talk!)


End file.
